


Rainbow in Soho

by localfreak



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale lives in Soho, Hedonist Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Masturbation, Other, Sex Toys, Sexy Times, lockdown - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:47:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24925651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/localfreak/pseuds/localfreak
Summary: Lockdown shouldn't be a problem for a celestial being, but despite keeping busy with his books and his baking, Aziraphale gets a little lonely and restless.And you know what they say about idle hands...[Aziraphale has a very nice, pride-themed, wank]
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 92





	Rainbow in Soho

**Author's Note:**

> Okay the thing is, Aziraphale lives in Soho, where bookshops and sex shops rub shoulders (and occasionally occupy the exact same space) so I spotted [ this dildo (NSFW link)](https://www.lovehoney.co.uk/product.cfm?p=42905) and, like Aziraphale, couldn't get it (or him using it) out of my head.

Staying in wasn’t particularly a problem. Aziraphale had done plenty of travelling, leading to a well exercised ‘inward eye which is the bliss of solitude’. He had his bookshop and plenty to read, and with that and his new cooking hobby to make up for the lack of restaurant options…well, that was certainly plenty to keep him occupied for a century or two, really. 

Celestial beings do not perceive time the way humans do after all. Aziraphale remembered many a decade sent peacefully sitting on the high peaks of a mountain-top admiring the view and perhaps visiting only the occasional hill farmer to sample goat’s cheese and home made pickles, or dwelling in white tents in the middle of a sandy desert, occasionally trading travellers a few miracled skeins of water in exchange for scrolls or flat bread or well-spiced meat cooked out in the open. 

The trouble was, of course, that the years had softened Aziraphale in different ways and spending so much time with humans he found that he rather missed them. For as long as mankind had existed, Aziraphale had got used to seeing them around, got used to the smells of cooking things filling the streets, hearing children play and-of course- being invited in to break bread or drink tea or sample a new cake recipe. 

Now, when taking a stroll to get his permitted 1-hour of exercise, people crossed the street to avoid him and yes- fine-they nodded politely but – well it wasn’t very nice to be given a wide berth. He wondered if this is how Crowley felt except, of course, Crowley wasn’t a silly old angel and would probably not care at all. Aziraphale reminded himself at least once a day to buck up but…well, if he were honest it all reminded him a bit too much of heaven. He had never liked going up there to give his report or to attend a conference but when he had, over the millennia, it had been a lot like that. Friendly but polite smiles and angels he didn’t know mostly being too shy to approach him, he looked so different to them with his earthly garb and, for the first few millennia at least, tracking sand along the heavenly corridors.  
It felt more uncomfortable to go out as well from his bookshop. The theatre signs shone out, showing out of date posters and the pubs and restaurants promoted their ‘Mother’s Day special rate’ long after the day had gone. There were no markets, no street vendors, the ticket office at Leicester Square was absent from tourists and the beautiful gates of the globe stayed firmly shut. 

There was very little to amuse him outside except peering into shop windows at displays that never changed, feeling uncomfortably like he had stepped out of the real London- which never stood still for a moment, rushing about like anything- and into a museum of London frozen in time. 

And he missed Crowley. He had rather hoped that with the whole messy apocalypse business behind them they might’ve been able to see each other rather more. It had been so nice at the Dowling household, being able to see Crowley every day, even in disguise.  
The shop two down from him had already begun to advertise its stock for Pride and now it looked like there wouldn’t be one at all. That made him rather sad as well, he had been to almost every one (work permitting) in London since the first and he had always enjoyed those bubbling fearful-yet-thrilling emotions of freedom and happiness and love he found in the crowd.  
His antique radio had cheerfully informed him “Pride is going on-line” but as Aziraphale had an extremely limited understanding about what “going on-line” meant he wasn’t quite sure what to tell his computer to do in order to get him there. He knew Crowley had a trick of travelling along telephone cables but he was pretty sure that wasn’t what the radio meant. (If it could, Aziraphale’s old Amstrad computer would have sighed with relief at not being asked to find a way to connect to the internet and stream video which was really quite a bit too much for a machine as venerable as itself). 

Ultimately, the real problem, Aziraphale felt, was that he was lonely and restless and quite at sixes and sevens with himself and that was the reason he hadn’t been able to keep next-door-but-two’s Pride display out of his mind.  
Or, one particular item. 

Of course, no one was in. He couldn’t buy it. The shop was alarmed and the owners, weren’t like him living over the property- the real owner of the business never visited at all and the shop staff weren’t paid well enough to be able to live in the city and were self-isolating with their respective parents, housemates or romantic partners some miles away, hardly thinking about the shop at all except in the vague trepidation that their furlough might be exchanged to redundancy if their employers thought they could get away with it. 

It wasn’t even his colour. Creams and browns and whites and golds had always been preferable to Aziraphale. They were practical at first living in hot climate but then, well he’d rather developed his sense of style and felt that such colours always looked elegant, pretty and a little understated- like fine jewellery. 

This wasn’t understated. It stood proudly in the shop window proclaiming its (moderate and quite adequate) size and unabashed bright rainbow colours. Less than fifty years ago it would never have been permitted to make such a bold statement by sitting in a shop window at all, let alone catching the eye with its cheerful colours. 

Aziraphale rather wanted it. 

And really, after a week or two he reasoned, it wasn’t breaking and entering if one simply- relocated itself from the stockroom into his bookshop and the till quietly whirred to life to register the exact cost entering into its empty (because of course, it had been cashed up before the shop had been locked) compartments. 

And then he’d bought it. 

He looked at the box carefully and then shoved it under a stack of books on his desk and went back to baking.  
The days continued. The weather became at turns unreasonably hot for Britain, though the bookshop remained cool and temperate so Aziraphale only noticed the heat in terms of sensing the atmospheric pressure changes. He couldn’t concentrate to read and struggled to decide to bake anything. 

Walks were still not much fun. The birds and butterflies and insects in the parks were having a whale of a time being left undisturbed to make their nests and rear their young (well, apart from the rats and pigeons which were growing rather more bold and vicious in protest at the lack of discarded chip-burger-kebab litter and food waste being thrown out which they had been very comfortably accustomed to).  
At last, Aziraphale couldn’t take it anymore and opened the box. 

“Well,” he told himself, “if you’re going to do a thing, you might as well do it properly.”

He began with a bath. Aziraphale had always been a fan of baths and for this one he decided to really go for it. He put scented oils in the water, put the record player on, grabbed a book (before discarding it, he still couldn’t concentrate on reading which was just _upsetting_ ), poured himself a glass of wine and soaked. He washed his hair until it was soft and curling damply as it dried and then miracled himself a long, low couch amidst the bookshelves (which rearranged themselves obediently as always) and, with only his towel around his waist, gathered up some supplies, including a rather nice selection of snacks, a pot of tea and some water with lemon.  
After sitting down and taking a drink of water and applying some creamy moisturiser to his skin he looked down at himself and sighed. He had rather intended to give himself a full manicure and pedicure but his corporation was clearly tired of their current pace and was making its impatience known 

“Very well then,” Aziraphale told himself, licking his lips nervously. He wasn’t quite sure where to begin. He lifted the rainbow coloured dildo from its wrapping and curled up next to it on the couch. It still seemed a bit premature to just dive straight in so he lay there and closed his eyes from it. He imagined a soft mouth kissing at his own lips, trailed his own hand along his forehead and down his neck in the pattern a lover might make with kisses. 

He clutched at his own chest in a way that felt really like nothing very much at all until he imagined the hands doing the grabbing weren’t his own. Long, slender fingers instead, squeezing his pectorals, a hot, warm mouth breathing over his nipples as long legs curved either side of his hips. Oh yes. That was better. 

He picked up the dildo and placed it between his lips. It tasted bland and plastic and not at all what Crowley would taste like, of course, but he sucked it greedily in, imagining the weight of it to be Crowley’s on his tongue. He imagined looking up and meeting a golden-eyed gaze staring down at him, Crowley fighting to keep his eyes open and stay in control as Aziraphale sucked him down as deep as he could go and stroked at his smooth thighs and the crease of his hipbones. 

Aziraphale placed one of his own hands in his hair, the other holding the dildo steady as he imagined Crowley holding on to him, watching as he moaned around Crowley’s length.

He eased the dildo from his mouth as slowly and gently as if it were the real thing. The rainbow colours shone wetly with his own saliva in a way that felt terribly exciting. The towel had fallen open and now Aziraphale lay on the couch, comfortably bracketed by quiet, loving bookshelves and completely naked and wanton. He imagined Crowley looking down at him, drinking him in, watching him like a particularly delicious piece of cake, and, at last, gave in and miracled his fingers covered with a sweet olive-scented lubricant and contorting to his side to rub more around the pucker of skin, teasingly, gently before pushing his way inside. 

Despite being a being that, over the years, was extremely fond of anything that brings joy or pleasure and comfort, Aziraphale hadn’t done this often. Not in the last century at least, but his hands were deft and clever and soon he was stretching himself with two, burying his face into the soft conjured pillow and _ready, oh so ready_. 

He removed his fingers, keening from the loss a little and then covered the dildo in lubricant and lined it up. He let it go in slowly but firmly, gasping and wishing for a further free hand to better clutch as his own throat, his shoulders, the sheet beneath him as he felt the wonderful, colourful thing stretch him out. Again, he imagined Crowley watching, sliding the colourful dildo home and what on earth would he look like right then- curls flushed and wet, cheeks red and panting, totally undone with a rainbow coloured object held tight inside him filling him up. He pushed it in and out a few times feeling the intense drag, but his other hand had already given up its grasp on the pillow and was wrapped firmly around his cock. He pushed back on the dildo, gasping as it touched just the right places to light him up inside as his other hand moved fumbling put purposefully over his dripping cock. 

“Oh,” he moaned, a short of breath feeling all over him as his fantasy changed to Crowley pushing at his shoulders, holding him down as he pushed his own cock in and out and Aziraphale spread as wide as he could, “Oh, yes, love, take me, take me.”

He felt it rising just below the base of his spine, his balls tightening, the air almost crackling in the heat as he groaned, clamping tight around the length buried deep inside him as he came with a howl and a smattering of downy feathers, which drifted gently upon the sweat cooling on his body. Aziraphale lay there for some minutes, catching his breath, feeling the breeze in the air on his skin, before reluctantly easing the dildo out and pushing it aside. 

Angels don’t sleep, but one does doze, on occasion, body trembling with aftershocks. 

‘The only thing’, he thought somewhat dreamily, rubbing a gentling hand over his stretched hole, ‘that would have improved that was if Crowley had been here.’

Across London, in the dim bedroom of a Mayfair flat. Crowley moaned in his sleep, cuddling his pillow like a lover and began to stir.


End file.
